


When the bedsheet revealed more than it concealed

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Series: The Bedsheet Chronicles [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John is a Mess, M/M, Mycroft is perfect, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 15:43:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16452764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: “So…… not quite a Virgin then?” John asked, intrigued.





	When the bedsheet revealed more than it concealed

They had left Buckingham Palace and got back to 221B a short while ago and were sitting in their chairs: Sherlock (contrarily fully dressed now), with the violin in his hands and John finishing a cup of tea.

 

“So…… not quite a Virgin then?” John asked, intrigued.

Sherlock shrugged. “I like sex John. I may not need it very often but when I do, it has to be done just right.”

John was a bit startled at the totally unexpectedly matter- of- fact- way this was being said!

Meanwhile Sherlock continued to talk in his ‘explaining tone’ (as John had labelled it).

“It’s just that for you sex makes everything else acceptable. I mean that you are willing to overlook minor issues of aesthetics, personality, and maybe even certain physical characteristics, in anticipation of a sexual encounter. But for me, everything else has to be acceptable before I can have a sexual encounter.”

He paused and continued in a slower, softer tone.

 _A sexier tone_ , John thought at the back of his mind even as he paid attention to what Sherlock was saying.

“The feel of the skin…….the smell……...the voice. It is all important. The mind, the thinking, the understanding. There has to be genuine intellectual compatibility John………I can’t go around seeking sex from just anyone.”

“Well I never expected anything less from you I guess.” John said thoughtfully. “Only the best will do. After all, a man who plays the Stradivarius for just a hobby can’t get by with anything less than perfection in bed can he?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, picking up the violin that was in his lap. “Mycroft gifted this to me when I turned 18.”

 “Perfection.” he whispered, seemingly to the violin, while gently drawing the bow across the strings.

There was an odd smile on his lips.

.

.

Sherlock had often accused John of not being observant enough. But today he was observing and what he was deducing was making him feel a Bit Not Good and a Lot Weird.

_How would Sherlock possibly find a sexual partner matching his high standards?_

It would have to be a highly refined genius with impeccable taste.

Good looking.

Smelling good.

The voice was also important he had said.

The way he had said _feel of the skin_ , in his deep voice…..slowly…..as thought remembering what that skin felt like.

 _And it was unlikely to be a meek person_ John realized with a bewildering flash of insight.

Sherlock may be insufferable at crime scenes and bossy and controlling but he had an endearing streak of submissiveness in his personal life sometimes and John could just imagine that Sherlock would prefer to be dominated by his sexual partner.

Then he blushed so furiously at the thought of what he had thought of that he _almost_ missed the dreamy expression on Sherlock’s face as he continued to plink the strings of the violin, apparently seeing patterns in the eloquent dust motes swirling in the setting light of the sun.

 

“It’s him!” Sherlock said suddenly and his face transformed in a way that John would swear he had absolutely never seen before. _Or had he simply never noticed before?!_

There was a familiar triple tap on the stairs and John gaped at the door of the flat as it was pushed open to reveal………Mycroft.

_Mycroft!_

John had never noticed his smell earlier but today, as he stepped into the flat, he was almost overwhelmed by a distinctive woody aftershave with possible notes of pepper. There was also a very Myrcroftian scent of leather, interiors of expensive cars, rich wool mingled with paper and ink.

 

John suddenly felt as though every breath in his lungs had been sucked away.

Standing in front of him was …….

A highly refined genius with impeccable taste.

Good looking.

Smelling good.

Intellectually compatible.

Dominant.

Perfect.

.

.

Then the Most Dangerous Man in Britain looked at John and tipped his head in greeting, accompanied by a thin smile.

He turned to look at Sherlock. “Ready to go, Brother Mine?”

Sherlock almost pranced to the door.

Mycroft helped him wear his coat, and then smoothed some invisible crease at the back, running his gloved hand slowly down the entire length from neck to waist and even further down.

Sherlock turned to face him.

Then Mycroft found a speck of dust on the front of Sherlock’s purple silk shirt that needed to be brushed away. Elegantly. Precisely.

When that was done he made some minor adjustment to Sherlock’s collar. Then he took the blue scarf and looped it around the younger man’s neck, pulling the knot just so, and patting it down, while Sherlock stood there as though a spell had been cast on  him, a slow flush rising up from his pale throat to his cheeks, lips parted, eyes soft.

Sherlock was almost as tall as Mycroft but just those couple of inches that fell short made it necessary for him to look up a fraction, giving him an endearing expression of anticipation.

.

.

John realized that he had never _ever_ seen them stand so close to each other before.

Clearly, seeing Sherlock in a bedsheet at the Palace had broken through some unknown code of conduct these two had around each other.

John glanced at Mycroft’s face and instantly wished he hadn’t.

Mycroft looked like he wanted nothing more than to devour Sherlock.

Claim him. Consume him.

His eyes appeared dark with desire, his breathing was marginally faster and as John watched, mesmerized, he delicately licked his lower lip.

_Not quite the Ice Man then._

_._

_._

John shivered and had a feeling that if he tried to stand up, his knees would give way and his brain would shut down. He just sat in his chair, almost a quivering mass of jelly at the intense sexual tension he could sense in the room, radiating off these two in powerful waves.

He wasn’t sure what he would do if the two of them didn’t leave the flat right away. He didn’t think he had ever been more painfully aroused than he was right now. He had broken out into a fine sweat and his pulse was racing.

Time appeared to come to a standstill inside the flat and John felt like a fly about to be trapped in a large languid drop of amber that was coming his way and he was unable to escape.

.

.

Mycroft slowly lifted one hand, still encased in the black leather gloves, as though to cup Sherlock’s face and instinctively the younger man appeared to start to lean into his touch.

John watched with bated breath, absolutely convinced that he would simply explode if that hand made contact with that face.

As if reading his thoughts, both men turned to look at him.

Mycroft pulled his hand back and adjusting the umbrella in one hand, placed the other hand firmly and possessively on his brother’s lower back.

 _His BROTHER’S back_ John wanted to scream.

 

Sherlock spoke up “I may be late John. Don’t wait up.”

He turned back and looked into Mycroft’s eyes and John had this irrational feeling that the intensity of that look was going to set fire to the flat.

As the brothers went down the stairs, they were murmuring something he could barely catch. But it sounded like Mycroft was saying _I think you broke him Brother Mine._

Sherlock’s reply was lost in the clatter of his descent.

.

.

John sat in a daze for the better part of an hour after they had gone, every gear in his brain screeching to a grinding halt every time he tried to process what he had just seen.

He finally took a deep shuddering breath, and then another.

Then he got up and made himself a cup of tea.

Because that is how the British built and then sustained a global empire.

By drinking cosmic amounts of tea.

And because, no matter how ridiculously aroused he had become, there was no way, absolutely no way, that he was going to do anything about it but try to _forget it_ and hope that the blood redirected itself to his brain where it would currently be more useful.

 

Suddenly he laughed.

It was a crazed sound even to his own ears, echoing madly in the empty flat.

The Iceman and the Virgin were out. Together. _May be back late._

And Three Continents Watson was sitting at home. Alone. Drinking tea.

 

 _Fuck nicknames_ he thought as he switched on the telly and settled in to watch……anything really….till either sleep or madness overtook him, whichever came first.


End file.
